


Contraband

by annundriel



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Trespasser Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 09:27:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5042938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annundriel/pseuds/annundriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They have tonight and tomorrow and the night after that, and then they will go their separate ways again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contraband

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Trespasser.

Dorian arrives first and lights a fire in the bedroom hearth. There is dust on the mantle, and the furniture—covered in sheets of white—looms at him from the corners of the room; a desk and chair, a settee, an armoire. The curtains of the bed are pulled shut, and when Dorian opens them, he’s reminded of the last time they were here, he and the Iron Bull, the last time they were pressed together like the pages of a book, their stories meeting. His hands shake; from excitement or nerves or both, he’s not sure.

He doesn’t have long to think about it, to mull over the months between that time and this, and the nights—and days—when all he had was the Bull’s voice to offer distraction, comfort, release. The Bull’s step on the stair is distinctive, heavy and eager, and when Dorian opens the door, Bull’s _kadan_ is breathless.

 _Amatus_ , Dorian says, and his hands are shaking but it’s all right because the Bull’s are, too. Rough and warm and familiar, they press against Dorian’s face as the Bull tips him this way and that in the light of the fire, eye drinking him in. _Amatus_ , he says, his own hands wrapping around the Bull’s wrists, hanging on.

They say little else for ages, nothing but the snap and crackle of the fire to punctuate the panting breathes, the hitches and gasps and moans. The particular way the Bull rumbles when he’s especially pleased and Dorian laughs when he knows it. There is nothing but this, but them, here in the four walls of this room, beneath the canopy of a rarely used bed. It is the half-way point, this sanctuary, chosen for its location, its strong foundation. Its abundant wine cellar. Chosen because Thedas is too big and life is too short and how could Dorian give this up when he’s only just found it?

Clothes are torn and buttons lost. Their hands and fingers, their mouths, learn and relearn the other. A bruise on the column of Bull’s neck ringed with a hint of teeth; five purpling marks like grapes at the curve of his bicep; a series grown flush leading from hip to cock and back again. Dorian makes good use of the time he has, wanting the Bull to remember. Afraid that he will forget.

When his hands turn desperate, the Bull’s gentle him, rolling him over, onto his back. Fingers twine together, palm kissing palm, and the Bull breathes his name. _Kadan_ , he says, lips brushing Dorian’s jaw. _Dorian_. His touch is steady, certain, and Dorian rises up into it, grateful for the grounding.

 _Please_ , he breathes. (It comes easily now, more easily than ever; _please_ and _yes_ and _more_ slipping from his tongue to the Bull’s. Always rewarded; never scorned.)

Against his skin, the Bull grins. His teeth are sharp, and Dorian aches with want, hands gripping as the Bull moves above him, kneeing between Dorian’s thighs, spreading them wide. One hand free—one hand still tangled with Dorian’s—the Bull tips Dorian’s chin one way to follow the line of his jaw to the curve of his neck with careful, open-mouthed kisses that leave Dorian shivering, cock leaking on his belly, but nothing else. The Bull does not mark him here; he is a tease, but he is smart. He is so smart, and Dorian doesn’t know what he would do if anything were to ever happen—

 _Dorian_.

He swallows hard, breathes once through his nose and once through his mouth. In his chest, his heart settles as much as it can. The Bull smiles at him, warm and fond and clearly—so clearly—his.

Touching his free hand to the Bull’s cheek, Dorian traces the scars that cut across the familiar plains of his face. _Amatus_ , he says, heart too full for anything else.

A nuzzle, a kiss, and the Bull turns back to his journey, following line of Dorian’s sternum, the curves of his chest. He laps at Dorian’s nipples and nips at the muscles that jump at across Dorian’s stomach and laughs when Dorian squirms when the Bull reaches his navel.

Their fingers stay twined.

The Bull bypasses his cock with an eyebrow raised, a challenge for Dorian to say something. He refrains, happy to have the Bull here, to have the Bull at all. They have tonight and tomorrow and the night after that, and then they will go their separate ways again. It isn’t much, and it isn’t enough, but Dorian knows the perils that lie in messing with time and there are many things in the world that need fighting for.

A hand on his hip, and it is now that the Bull marks him, Dorian shifting into the touch, wanting more of it, wanting to really _feel_ it. To know that in the morning he will wake and the Bull will be there but so will the shape of his fingers on Dorian’s skin, darkening overnight and lasting long after the Bull is leagues away. The Bull licks and kisses and sucks, bites at the tender skin of Dorian’s inner thigh before moving to mouth at his balls. He noses at him, breathing deep, and Dorian’s fingers move against the top of his head to the place where his horns begin trying—trying—to memorize their exact texture for later when all he has is the Bull’s voice speaking to him in the dark.

 _Bull_ , he breathes when the Bull sucks him down, mouth hot around his cock.

 _Bull_ , as he spreads his legs wider, the Bull’s cock against him.

 _Bull_ , as he comes, muscles tightening, heart pounding in his ears fast and steady and strong.

The Bull’s eye never leaves him, gaze hot and bright, and when he comes it’s with Dorian’s name on his lips.

Dorian goes back to Tevinter smelling like the Bull, the shape of the Bull’s mouth and fingers hidden on the inside of his thighs.


End file.
